There were foreign objects; there was pain. It was the 6th of fucking June.

On came Richard fucking Kenny and his fellow fucking brave hearts. On came God’s fucking crusade in some fucking death trap of a fucking landing craft in the fucking English fucking Channel just dying to help a bunch of fucked up, fuck assed fucking Frogs get their god damned, fucking fucked up fucking country back from some god damned, fucking fucked up fucking fuck assed crazy assed fucking goose assed stepping assed, fucking, rot in hell fucking Krauts.

Dreams for Richard fucking Kenny.

A putrid soldier’s dreams.

Richard fucking Kenny found himself with the first assault waves of American heroes climbing up the fucking beaches of fucking Normandy.

The young man next to Richard fucking Kenny on the fucking landing craft on the way to the fucking beach sang the praises of Christ the fucking Lord. The one next to him puked his fucking guts out. Richard fucking Kenny had not only come three thousand fucking miles to get his fucking ass blown off but he had to do it with some fucking idiot’s fucking puke all over his fucking gear and some other fucking idiot singing the fucking praises of Christ the fucking lord in his fucking ear.

Richard fucking Kenny was very fucking agitated, disgusted about the whole fucking thing. He was fucking annoyed. He would, he thought, have, at least, died a happier goddamned fucking death if he was sliced and diced by one of his old fucking playmates and left to bleed to death in some god damned fucking stink hole puddle in some god damned fucking stink hole alley behind some god damned fucking, rotten assed, fucking greasy spoon.

His god damned, fucking father, where ever the fuck he was must be turning over in his god damned, fucking grave at the thought of his only fucking son running around with a bunch of fucking red necked fucking bloody fucking American he-men about to fucking charge good old fucking Europe, from whence his god damned, fucking father ran, to play god damned, fucking wonder soldier, god damned brave fucking wonder fucking hero.

Kraut soldiers were without bitter appreciation.

Richard fucking Kenny hit the beach on the shores very early in the fucking morning.

The fucking Kraut soldiers did not want to lose precious ground. They wanted Richard fucking Kenny and his fucking friends to be fucking dead. They appreciated fucking greatness, not Richard fucking Kenny. Little fucking Addie Kraut was their mad fucking fool. He was strong.

A wonder fucking soldier, wearing his spiffy little super duper little fucking uniform and traveling fucking on, Richard fucking Kenny was a thrill a minute. Richard fucking Kenny was getting his fucking tail shot at pretty fucking good. This day was to Richard fucking Kenny was a particular pain in the ass.

The lieutenant who was barely fucking alive only by grace of God and the captain who was half dead were both fucking very fucking happy that Richard fucking Kenny didn’t kill all of their own fucking wonder soldiers. They were both exceptionally proud that Richard fucking Kenny was a member of their, this man’s, fucking Army. They were most certainly overwhelmed. Richard fucking Kenney was their great fucking hope.

Richard fucking Kenny was put upon the god damned fucking earth to do great things, to fuck rotten fucking ladies, to be sharp as a tack, twice as mean. He loved to save the lives of the fucking wonderful who would be very happy to hang his happy little fucking New York fucking assed neck from a god damned fucking cross when he was back in the god damned fucking fuck assed States. Richard fucking Kenny just wanted to jump up and down and salute the god damned fucking good old fucking red, white and fucking blue’s best fucking examples of fucking class.

The All fucking American fucking boy was not something Richard fucking Kenny could put up with too much longer. Richard fucking Kenny reveled in his own fucking wonder. He was fucking proud that he had saved the lives of all of the fucking red necked fucking fuck assed fucking hicks. Richard fucking Kenny was tired, very, very tired, and he didn’t want the All fucking American fucking boy to wake up one fucking morning and turn on Richard fucking Kenny when Richard fucking Kenny wasn’t fucking looking

Many forms, many shapes the All fucking American fucking hero. He said many different fucking things. He was sure to turn into a no good fucking asshole sooner or later. Poor Richard fucking Kenny.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

He survived it. The first day, the first day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the second day, the second day off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the third day.

Richard Kenny survived the fourth day.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking month off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the first fucking year off the fucking beach.

Richard fucking Kenny survived the fucking war.

* * * * * * * * * *

Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy. Amy Lucille to the young men and women of pride and honor. Amy Lucille to those who sought the glint in her radiant brown eyes shining brightly as she allowed company with the sons and daughters of manners and property. She, Amy Lucille, able to touch their hearts vigorously, in worship and adoration.

Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy was that which could make life worth living, a shining beacon apart from all others of a peculiar conflagration of will, of a peculiar conflagration of mood, a treasure, Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy. She wished to be the ideal to which all fine young dreamers might aspire, who did not let the pedestal upon which she found herself not allow her to not do what she must.

The giver of sunshine and shadow, the purveyor of pleasure and pain. The killer of mothers, the lovers of fathers, the seductress of aunts and uncles. The touch, the brush, the sweet, sweet kiss, the dear, sweet caress. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy. The nectars, the juices of sweet, sweet existence. How sweet, sweet Amy craved. How she craved. Sweet, sweet Amy.

Sweet, smart Amy. Amy, sweet, sweet Amy could only think of thighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy could only think of sighs and such and water her lips with the tip of her tongue. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

The lures of those who fondled, the lures of those who craved, Amy, sweet, sweet Amy would live to crave a thousand lives. The sweet, sweet lovers of sweet, sweet Amy, sweetly, sweetly maimed, murdered, before sweet, sweet Amy could ever again enjoy their sweet, sweet pleasures.

She was the last best hope of daunting sin, Amy.

Some men died for love, Sweet Amy figured. Some men died for money, Sweet Amy figured. Some just wanted freedom from ghosts, dead spirits, evil, she figured. Some took the path of least resistance. Some, the last alternative to life.

Amy. Sweet, sweet, Amy.

She baited, she cooed, Amy. She laughed, she darted. She promised lusts with her lips, said goodbye with her hips, Amy. She was a gift given, Amy. Her lips inspired trust, her voice aching want, Amy. She drew hearts out as a magnet, Amy. She drew spirits with ferocious fire. The sweetness. The contempt.

Get to a strong man, a weak man, a smart man, Amy figured. Make a magic wand, Amy figured. A turn of the screw, she figured. A way in, a way out. Will to will, strength to strength. Strength to weakness, guile, subtlety. Amy knew the equations well. Worked them well.

* * * * * * * * * *

Memory is a sometimes wisp of smoke, a fog that traps those who wish to run with the fires and furies of the whirlwinds that spin dangerously amidst the cunning who understand the fragility of the soul and the meanness of the spirit. There are those deep and dear and those of substance and depth are often taken for granted and given rides to test the waters of eerie endeavor and feel the heat of vile creatures.

Characters that spring upon the hidden planes of existence, hidden planes of attack may be of an interesting kind, may be of a rancid, sinister kind and play in dominance, survival, and find themselves oriented to the mysteries of life with stories following around roots and edifices, movements through time and fate. Dreams and drama induce momentous rides and searing portraits of self and season.

My world is a wanton place with playthings in long spacious corridors angling in to slice and vanquish as they present their great homage to prosperity and glitter.

Time a strange longing myth. The world an art. Muses watch blandly from the sidelines. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. From the weight of sin, noble honor, comes a tempered stew that radiates out from the sinews and muscles of poor challenging bastards; that radiates out from hubris, aggression, want.

Mean and lust are tempo. Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power.

She is quite the sensual, wondrous toy who transpires through time, through dimension. Quite the user, the hustler, the seer, the queen. Quite the mystery who comes up in myth and mist.

Cynicism is wrapped in soft cloth. Truth floats through gauzy mists. There is fear, intimidation, loss. There is ecstasy, the traps of history, of identity, of will, of territory, of belief. There is passion. There is wisdom. There are kills, histories with long roots, many mothers, unyielding fathers. There are neon lit nights and strong doses of tough. There are memories, cold hard facts.

Actions, taken through time are taken by those who are the prisoners of an uneasy chase, prisoners of the ghosts of wily survival. Motion follows paths easing towards searing savagery and redemption. Many walk in uneasy terrain. The kill is the winning bastard, chasing down the scurrying flock. Beauty, honor, revenge show dangerous enticement, coming sometimes hard, sometimes not at all. Honor, freedom, power, will, rush through the thickets of deadly time.

Conflict urges towards damnation, urges towards the visceral thrills of the rewards of power. There is dismissiveness, domination, fears of power, the traps of circumstance, will, cynicism, of want.

Swirling plays for the depths of men’s souls stir the chase. Swirling plays for power and greed stir the games at hand. There is sustenance in the drinking up of the brew offered by the tainted mixes of hunger and reserve, the tainted mixes of driven characters in cool focused rage.

Swirls of action and consequence run frolicsome charges through roads taken by those weak enough to pursue them. Pursuits of harsh base pleasures and purposes provide a world of gamesmanship, sorrow. There are enticing, foggy, predatory pasts. Life is full. It harbors heightened existence, clashes of will, of instinct.

A stark landscape is created, one that does that which it has to do, that forges that which it has to forge, that sets up that which it has to set up.

Death seeks his muse.

* * * * * * * * * *

Richard Kenny developed his modicum of veneer. He used it on the broken who had money to spend as they wiled away looking rich, empty, bored and rusty. It was the easy buck, like dealing seconds. Richard Kenny was left to fend for himself with nothing save his momma’s good looks, his daddy’s cunning. Spread out, rancid, tired, Richard Kenny’s women who weren’t there broke the dreams of those who were and all were enjoined. Sweet, sweet Amy, my dear little Babe.

Richard Kenny looked for the ravages of weakness, took pleasure in watching gerbils squirm.

Richard Kenny’s entry. The sweet sense of nastiness, the odor of disdain. All of the men at the table of Richard Kenny’s life found Richard Kenny a shield to covet, a bastard to savage.

In 1942, in New York City, Richard Kenny was trying very hard to get out of the army. There were no fruits for his labors. He was sorry. Richard Kenney wanted out from the bottom side of an existence that had since lost its glamorous facade. Richard Kenney did not want to continue associations with the people with whom he had been associated.

Fuck the deranged lunatics.

Little Addie, this Hitler idiot was a damn menace to the damned world, no sense of proportion, no reason. The world was made up of an abundance of damn suckers. Any crazy asshole who knew how to make the suckers jump up and down in their cages could make a fine little life for himself. Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, only confirmed Richard Kenny’s beliefs.

Little fuck Addie, this Hitler idiot, and his goose assed , crazed fuck assed friends knew all the games that Richard Kenny, his friends knew so well, learned so well, taught so well. All of the neat little fuck assed tricks learned dealing with the other fuck assed suckers in his damned sweet rides through the piss holes of the Western World…Richard Kenny knew them well, taught them well.

Despite his best efforts and great resources Richard Kenny was inducted into the Army in the spring of 1943.

He was shipped south. He had to employ some of the tactics and friends of his New York associations. Too many certain southern gentlemen and others, in fond and happy anticipation, were filled with thrills at the thought of having a one hundred percent New York Jew boy at their disposal. That this was the way of things Richard Kenny knew. He was in a position, however, to make the certain southern gentlemen and others sorry that they disliked him so.

In the fall of 1943 Richard Kenny and his fuck assed friends were shipped overseas, were dispatched to be stationed in the south of England. Richard Kenny was training for he knew not what, for purposes for which he cared exceedingly less. Admiral Dewey, Black Jack Pershing, friggin’ Winston friggin’ Churchill, that crazy man, Macarthur, Jimmy Doolittle and his whole bunch of damned friggin’ Flying Tigers, fuck assed strutting Montgomery and all of the friggin’ British Tommies lying end to end on their god damned limey stained ass stained bellies couldn’t make god damned Richard Hymie Kharnovski give two shits about this god damned war.

Richard Kenny was not of the mind to allow some damned yo-yo of a Kraut paperhanger be the cause of him breathing his last breath in some god damned stinking European stink hole.

The goddamned krauts ought to have their goddamned asses mangled just for getting Richard Kenny into this goddamned mess. The goddamned Japs should also rot in fuck assed, rotten, saki hell.

Intransigence sells where it sells. Staunch ideology sells where it sells. The power of those who know how to access their way to corner the system goes to those who know how to access their way to corner the system. Their voters, supporters like that they get heard, like that they beat down godless heathens, like the sweet smell of success, excess. like their moments in the putrid sun, like being able to pull wings off of flies with impunity and immunity.

The lair of the devil is the lair of the devil. The homes of the devil are the homesof the devil. The devil don’t listen to the scum that it derides…. it is a message free zone of puffed up chests and driven rancor…. with love.

To beard the lion one must beard the lion. To break down the reasons one must cling to in order to protect their turf one must make them weak reasons….preaching to the heavenly choir of good don’t cut it.

If fools are fools then the only time it matters is when the mirror tells them so.

Jam it if you want it

The killers never go away. They just hide until they can manipulate events and things so that they can be the eternal enforcers. Sainthood and hatred are very good fuel for working this out.

Killers probe and probe and probe and probe … a constant technological, digital, emotional, fear smelling assault, probe. There are always ways in. There are always ways out. There are always happy little damned suckers and flighty little dancers. There are always those in the good grace of God.

Never see moderation through the hazes of hope, logic and exhaustion. Wishing on a star is nice but disappointing. Jam it if you want it.

Rule is what is longed for

To be a real grown up is to be a tough son of a b. The demented poor poor moderates are there and not, OK and not, passionless and not, unable to counter all full-sides from the scowling right, the indignant left, those with grit in their soused middle.

Tough, smart, authoritative and demeaning…. the happy hamsters of the middle never see nonsense for nonsense, never show up nonsense for nonsense …. never deal with bratty children or over weened teenagers as bratty children or over weened teenagers.

Who will smack down the smackers… vilify the vilifiers … make trivial the trivializers, demand not plead …. be skeptical not caressing, like governance not rule.

Rule is what is longed for… not long ago and far away. Governance is for losers.

I love power

Happy are those who love the freedom to be.

Happy are those who love the freedom to be free of law and structure and stricture and all around bad vibes brought to bear by those who are enemies mine.

Laws are made for picking and choosing and democracy means never having to abide by the sanctions of government and institutions run by the enemies of my right to be me.

Why give up any power at all when the world fears you, the tough guys love you, the defenders of hearth and home have you as a champion, you can make public people dance and sing and look like weak kneed little toadies and scared little jack rabbits afraid to confront the criminals within?

Why dialogue and synthesize positions when yours can be contaminated by all of the people you hate and mistrust, who don’t understand poor little you, who you could take out to the woodshed and have for breakfast?

Why give voice to a worm?

Non extremism in the face of a mitigation of power is a path of a chump.

Desperate times are time to double down.

Shoot the messenger. Love the joy of the trigger.

Guns IV. Be truly sincere.

Cry and sob. Weep and bay. Simper. Be dumb another day.

Scold and shame. Clinch teeth and damn. The world gives inconvenient things at times.

Watch the baby. Watch the rhyme. Watch the games of slaying for time.

Be staunch. Be brave. Be truly sincere. Be troubled. Be anxious. Be the enemy of fear.

Be the wise old head. Be a of gravitas earned. Be the paragon of virtue.

Knee jerks. Flee jerks. Have the fight.

Take its steam.

Have power that does not wane.

The sheep always run scared.

“Don’t tread on me” boy.

It is good to be a militia man. It is good to “live free or die”. “Don’t tread on me” boy. I bite. I am tough. I stand tall and work fast.

“Don’t tread on me” boy. I bite. I hate. I sneer. I know weak and mean, obstinate and confiscatory, the devil when I see it. Governments are for chumps. The state is the enemy. Enemies in power are the enemy. There is the one way to run a state. And only then with my gun to back it up.

They all hate me. They hate my rough hewn independence. They hate my willingness to fight shadows and my ability to see enemies domestic and foreign no matter how insignificant or cherished by me. It is good to be able to define an enemy. It is good to be judge and jury, executioner and savior.

“Don’t tread on me” boy. It is right to be right. Right to be of honor. It is right to fight evil … the evil that traps my soul, makes me associate with traitors and those not of God. It is right to stave off the constant charge of the mock rational and facetious schemers who wish to talk away my freedom.

There is always the great equalizer against the damning hordes. The bigger the bang, the more intimidated the enemy … the easier to mark my territory and to control my state, my territory … my way, God’s way, the highway.

To scare and cower evil as it seeks to destroy my way of being. That is a standard of manhood. There is no higher order.

Guns V: The logic of love

Without assault guns there could be no massive clips to use.

Without assault guns and massive clips to use there could be no threat from assault guns and massive clips to use.

Without no massive threat from assault guns and massive clips to use there could be no real use for armed guards and armed camps of citizen soldiers here there and everywhere protecting us from assault guns and massive clips.

Without armed guards and armed camps and armed arms there could be no push for the armed camps of like minded heroes who wish to live free or die and wish to have the right to accept or reject the law as they wish to see fit.

Intransigence sells where it sells. Staunch ideology sells where it sells. The power of those who know how to access their way to corner the system goes to those who know how to access their way to corner the system. Their voters, supporters like that they get heard, like that they beat down godless heathens, like the sweet smell of success, excess. like their moments in the putrid sun, like being able to pull wings off of flies with impunity and immunity.

The lair of the devil is the lair of the devil. The homes of the devil are the homesof the devil. The devil don’t listen to the scum that it derides…. it is a message free zone of puffed up chests and driven rancor…. with love.

To beard the lion one must beard the lion. To break down the reasons one must cling to in order to protect their turf one must make them weak reasons….preaching to the heavenly choir of good don’t cut it.

If fools are fools then the only time it matters is when the mirror tells them so.

The merry politicos who believe in their beliefs believe in their beliefs because they are bound for glory and because a true belief is a wonderful platform from which to enjoy hate, spew bile and pollute the ether. It is good to be a Knight Templar or a guardian of the nether worlds.

Problems are problems and problems cause grief. There is no real grief where there is no real urgency. There is only grief as show, grief as theater, grief as water horse for the power hungry and those of intellectual conceit who are smarter than mud.

When the urge to win is the urge of choice then the urge to win is the play of choice. When the urge to be a standard bearer for the one true way is the urge to sparkle and shine and be covered with the coat of many peevish swans of self righteousness then that is the coat to wear.

When the urge to get something done is an urge to get something done then bull dogs bulldog and they do the doable with the urge to get the bone.

The bone of the doable is a bone for the wise and mature….end of story.